Grissom (In the Company of Snipers #26)

Chapter Two

Grissom scrubbed the tiny, sample-size bar of yellow soap over his head, down the back of his neck, and back around through his beard, which was too damned long. What the hell was going on? Why hadn’t he shaved today? At least trimmed his beard like he usually did?

Most of what Murphy’d said made sense, but Kelsey had been shot? Since when? What fool with a death wish did that? Not being able to recall that sweet woman’s near-death experience was one of many black holes eating at Grissom’s brain, making him doubt himself and Murphy. Making him doubt everything. Like why was a tiny bar of soap he could barely hold in his big hand in this puny shower? Why’d he need Murphy to sign anything?

Grissom vaguely remembered being in a fight at some bar and the cops showing up. Tasering him. But the why, where, and when escaped him. And now he was—what? Incapable of making legal decisions? Under protective custody? Committed to a fucking asylum? Whose bright idea was that?

‘Yours,’ the tiny voice inside his head whispered. ‘The night you crashed. You agreed with Murphy after he insisted you wouldn’t want to scare your sons.’

“How could I scare them? I don’t even know where they are,” he exclaimed out loud. To himself. Like talking and answering himself made sense? Maybe he was crazy.

‘You’ll find them. That’s what you do. Protect the weak. Defend the powerless. Bring the lost lambs home. Never ever give up.’

Grissom nodded at the astute summary of the Army Ranger he used to be. “Yeah. That’s what I do.” Did. Intend to do…

The image of three children a world away shimmered between the misty spears sluicing from the showerhead. In a blurry flash, Grissom was back in Syria. To that day. Talk about a clusterfuck. He hadn’t been distracted or angry back then. Not at all.

One of the local leaders had contacted their CO with an urgent, “Help us! We found a bomb! In our school! Hurry, come help.” Which was pretty much the state of the entire war-torn country back then. At one time, Syria had been one of the most educated countries in the Middle East. The government had promoted literacy for all boys and girls. Close to one hundred percent of the country’s children were enrolled. Education was free.

Not anymore. The war brought chaos, along with the cruelty of child soldiers and gender-based violence—aka, rape—the standard weapon for invading countries in the whole fucked-up world.

So Grissom’s squad had hurried. Once in the village, they’d checked with the man who’d called. He’d claimed to be the teacher, that the school was the only normal thing left in the children’s lives. So dutifully, Grissom and his men had combed through the two-room, four-by-four brick schoolhouse, but hadn’t found squat. He recalled being thankful that there were no children present, that the town’s people had, at least, protected their kids. Their boys. Parents in Syria didn’t send girls to school anymore. Too many had already been kidnapped and exploited and—worse.

All six in Grissom’s squad had followed their Military Working Dog, Thumper, as she’d cleared each dark, little room in the building. Corporals Karras and Barone, Thumper’s handler Sergeant Halliway, and Grissom had been tight on the MWD’s butt when she’d alerted and bolted out the only exit that faced west. They’d gone left and followed her to the rear of the building. Captain Hauser and Sergeant Anderson went right. The squad reconnected behind the building, by that time facing due east. Nothing there but dust, scrub brush, and acres of barren landscape. No trees or buildings. Nothing to hide behind. No rusted-out trucks. No broken-down homes.

Despite the lack of obvious threats, Grissom had taken a knee at one rear corner of the building, and covered his squad’s backs, his M16 ready to spread suppressive fire in all directions if needed. Karras had assumed the same position at the opposite rear corner.

It wasn’t until Thumper’d started digging and Halliway called her off, that a prickle of unease had slithered up Grissom’s spine. Down on his hands and knees in the dirt with his rear end stuck in the air, Halliway had peered into the hole, then popped back up with a shit eating grin and said, “You guys gotta see this.”

Grissom and Karras had stayed put while Hauser and Anderson squatted alongside Halliway. “A fuckin’ French drain?” had hissed out of Anderson. “Out here? In the desert?”

Quietly, Captain Hauser had stuck a gloved hand deep into the hole up to his shoulder and jerked out one end of a twelve-inch-diameter plastic perforated pipe stuffed full of small arms, cell phones, and a tangled mess of—

Incoming! Suddenly, they were taking fire from somewhere in all that nothingness behind the schoolhouse. Thumper charged the attackers, who Grissom still couldn’t see. They seemed to be shooting high and wide, not aiming to kill as much as to annihilate the schoolhouse. That was when a bullet slammed into his chest and knocked him on his ass. He’d assumed it had hit his tactical vest. He’d shaken it off. Kept covering Thumper’s fluffy butt.

When another spray of bullets went wild over his head, years-worth of muscle training had taken over. Grissom had jumped to his feet and nailed the two-foot-high scrub bush where most of that wild-assed gunfire had been coming from. It didn’t register until much later how small that bush was, or how narrow a grown man’s shoulders had to be for him to hide behind a foot-wide sprig of dusty branches.

Karras took out the other shooter, and Thumper—poor, poor MWD Thumper—had earnestly ripped the third bastard apart.

Like the good attack-trained dog she was…

Had been…

Would never be again…

Everyone there saw the limp, bloodied, and too small to be a man’s arm she’d dragged back to her handler, her tail held high like a flag. She’d done her due diligence—like she’d been trained. She’d ended the assailant, and she was proud. She’d come back for the rubber ball in Halliway’s pocket. Her reward for doing a good job…

For being a good girl…

Only then did Grissom realize the shooters were three malnourished ten-year-old boys, who’d looked more like they were seven. Three boys who’d been bullied into shooting American soldiers by Syrian terrorists who’d threatened to kill their mothers if they hadn’t obeyed.

Intelligent, gun-smart Americans understood the difference between select-fire assault rifles and machine guns. But ten-year-old, frightened kids, armed with bump-stock modified AKs, only knew how to squeeze triggers. Three little boys, damn it. They’d gone down like pins in a bowling alley. No bravado. No belligerent screams of ‘Infidel!” They’d just dropped, their tiny bodies torn apart by the best of America.

Caught up in the somber reverie, Grissom fantasized how, if he could go back in time, he wouldn’t’ve returned fire that day. If he’d known who the shooters were, he would’ve shot to disable the AK, not to kill a child. But he couldn’t turn back time, and he hadn’t shot to disable anything. He’d returned fire to save his men, and bottom line, he’d do it again. He didn’t need forgiveness for killing a kid. A mother’s son. A father’s pride and joy. Forgiveness would never be in the cards. He just needed to put the past behind him and move on.

Shaking his head at the utter injustice of war, Grissom knew he’d carry the grief from that tragedy the rest of his life. Thumper went home with Halliway when he’d processed out. She was living the life on his ranch in Texas, like a good WMD should. But Grissom had gone back to his life of hell with Pam, and he’d be damned if he’d carry the pain of losing his boys, too.

Lifting his face to the shower’s spray, he ran the tiny bar over the rest of his body and wished the water could rinse the confusion out of his head, as quickly as it got rid of the soap suds. Cranking the tap as hot as it could turn, he let the stinging heat work his shoulder muscles, then turned and offered his back for the same harsh treatment. He was a rubber band stretched so damned tight that every muscle and bone in his body hurt. Had for days.

Absent-mindedly, he fingered the scar in his right pec, the puckered divot beneath the inky tattoo glaring out at the world, left by the bullet he’d received that day. Of all things, the debacle at the schoolhouse happened the same day Tanner was born…

The day Pamela had finally informed Grissom he was a father…

That what they’d done during the one and only alcohol-induced night they’d spent together had produced a child. Even though he knew for damned sure he’d used a condom…

That he’d better plan on marrying her, unless he didn’t care if people called his kid a bastard. Her ugly word. Never his. Not for one second, not for the space of a breath, had Grissom ever regretted the births of either of his boys.

How was that for Karma?

Marrying Pamela was his greatest regret. A barfly who’d zeroed down on any guy in uniform, she was supposed to have been a one-and-done. He’d been drunk off his ass that night. She’d been particularly aggressive, and, okay, good-looking enough, if a guy liked a woman with long, stringy red hair, tight metallic stretch pants, and jugs that had more than filled his hands. Which apparently Grissom must’ve liked that night. Hadn’t taken much for Pam to get him out of his uniform and into her bed.

Waking up in that same bed the next morning was another mistake. He’d rolled out of there as quickly as he’d opened his eyes. He didn’t do breakfasts or mornings after. The one thing he remembered wasn’t the sex, only the condom, which was nowhere in sight the next morning, although he damned well knew he’d suited up the night before. He never went bare, not with barflies or hookers, not even with the occasional woman he might’ve cared for. Or liked. Which were damned few. Which made him wonder if she’d kept the condom. If she’d planned the whole thing.

Barflies and tag chasers were known to poke holes in rubbers to trap soldiers into marriage. Or to inseminate themselves with what a guy left behind in that latex trap—if he’d been smart enough to bring his own condom to the party. Either way, she’d gotten what she’d wanted. The first chance Grissom had, he’d flown back to the States and asked her to marry him. That was the day he’d finally met his firstborn. Pam hadn’t given their tiny baby boy a name yet, hadn’t even filled out the form for his birth certificate. So Grissom named the beautiful child in his hands after his Army buddy, Captain Tanner Eli Gunn. It was a strong name. Grissom took care of the paperwork that made Tanner legally his son, and then, like it or not, Grissom made Pamela his wife. God, he hated that word . She’d never been a wife. More like a soul-sucking leech who’d preyed on stupid, horny men like him.

Where are my boys? What’d she do with them before she died? To them?

A fierce breath of determination sent the steam in the stall billowing up to the vent in the ceiling. There was no curtain or shower door. No lock to the head. Not like Grissom cared. If some nurse or doctor needed to invade his privacy to make sure he wasn’t hurting himself or jerking off, let them look. Dumb asses. What hurt was everyone treating him like an incompetent idiot, as if he ever had or would hurt himself. As if he were suicidal. A danger to himself and to others. To his boys.

Shaking his head at all the know-it-alls in the world, Grissom let the past stay where it belonged—behind him. He couldn’t change what happened to those boys in Syria. Sure, it sucked. Always would. But so did his life. The only things keeping him going were his sons.

Turning the faucet off, he hurried through the rest of his abbreviated grooming routine. Towel dried. Raked his fingers over his wet head to keep his too-damned-long hair out of his eyes. Finger-combed his beard so it’d air-dry quicker. Used the tiny sample-sized deodorant standing on the counter by the sink. Because, hey, the damned drawers to the one and only cabinet in the room were painted on, and he had no idea where his jeans and boots were.

As a final salute to the almighty powers in this place, the ones who thought they knew better than him, Grissom ripped the wet towel off his hips and tore it into narrow strips, then braided the strips into a single rope. If the staff in this asylum thought they could, in any way, restrain a man like him, they needed a lesson in creativity. Twisting the rope into a tight, efficient noose, he left it hanging on the showerhead, where any damned fool could’ve hanged himself if he’d wanted to.

People didn’t need height to hang, just gravity and something tight around their necks. From then on, all a person had to do was lean into the act and let gravity take over. Risk-takers who dabbled in the dubious pleasures of autoerotic asphyxiation found out the hard way. Lean into that noose too long and you ended up dead.

Not Grissom. He had two God-given reasons to live. He just needed to find them.

Jerking the unlocked door to the head nearly off its hinges, he charged back into his room, stark naked, and found Murphy there, along with some guy in gray scrubs. Must be the doctor, judging by the disapproval wrinkling his forehead and the way he held his hands on his hips, like he thought he was important.

“Mr. McCoy?”

The guy’s voice sounded familiar. Grissom had the faintest notion he’d met him before. “I’m Grissom McCoy. What do you want?”

“A word with you if I may—”

“No, you may not. I’ve got work to do, and if you think you’re gonna stop me—”

“I’m not, but I’d like to send you out of here with a bottle of—”

“I don’t do drugs!”

“These are only to relieve anxiety. They’ll help you focus and—”

“My focus is fine. I’m outta here and—”

“Your focus is shot to hell, Gris,” Murphy interjected quietly, but with enough authority to shut Grissom down. “And you know it. Else you’d remember the brawl in that bar and punching the officer who tried to arrest you. You’d remember taking off on your bike and crashing into the rear end of that FedEx truck, which is why you ended up in here. And you’d remember to wear pants!”

‘Traitor!’ the nasty voice inside Grissom’s head screamed, at the same time another calmer voice whispered, ‘Murphy’s only ever been on your side. He’s not lying. Trust him.’

Murphy tossed him a pair of gray sweat pants. Grissom obliged and covered up. He swallowed hard, wishing his mind would engage all the way, damn it, instead of throwing opposing arguments that felt like grenades at him. Wishing he could remember, while striving not to look as weak and confused as he felt.

Doc Whoever-He-Was held out a small, green plastic bottle, the kind with a white child-proof cap and arrows that told you which way to turn, which way was up, and which way was down, and… Shit. Accepting help went against everything Grissom was and knew to be true. Men didn’t show weakness, damn it. They bucked up and carried on, and they—

Doc rattled the pills in that bottle, not impatiently, more like he was tempting Grissom.

“You don’t take them, you won’t be released,” Murphy said, “and I’ll make damned sure you take them if you’re going with me.”

Grissom snorted. “You’re going with me.”

Murphy shook his head. “No, Gris. You ” —he pointed at Grissom’s chest— “are going with me ” —he stuck a thumb at his own chest— “and that’s the only way this is going to work. You follow my rules, and we’ll find your boys and bring them home.”

A thousand questions whirred like an egg-beater gone wild inside Grissom’s head. What if we can’t find them? What if they’re hurt? What if their bitch of a mother sold them? How will I ever get them back then? What if I never find them? How can I live without them?!

What started as a string of logical questions morphed quickly into panic-laden shrieks that bounced inside his skull. Until Murphy landed a solid smack on his shoulder. The sting and warmth of that old man’s hand got through and… Grissom forced the frenzied panic back with a hard-earned swallow. It took everything he had to whisper, “Fine.”

“I want it clear that I’m releasing you against medical advice, Mr. McCoy,” Doc said. “Your friend here has already made several counseling appointments for you, and he promised you’ll keep them. Will you?”

Grissom finally met Doc’s gaze. The tag on his shirt said Doctor Windhall . He had bright, brown eyes. Caring eyes. Not cold, but warm brown eyes. Tanner’s eyes were warm and brown and alive, just like Doc Windhall’s. Maybe those pills in that bottle would keep him calm enough to once again be a good operator.

He took the bottle. “I promise,” he told the man. “After my boys are home and I’m sure they’re okay, then…” He sucked in a breath, needing a minute before he revealed that he might just need someone else’s help after all. “Okay, yeah. I’ll come see you.”

The guy’s chest heaved as if he’d been holding his breath. “Thank you, Grissom. Ms. Ashlee Peyton is our family counselor, and I know she’ll love working with you and your boys. I imagine they’ll need a little help when they get back home, don’t you think?”

He extended his other hand, his right hand, and automatically, Grissom took it. Because that was what men did. Their word was their bond and a handshake sealed the deal. “You might be right. Yeah, sure.”

“I look forward to working with you,” Doc said. “I’m here for you and for your boys. All you have to do is call.”

Grissom nodded. Yeah, sure. He’d come see this guy again, but only after Tanner and Luke were back where they belonged. At home. With him.